


Elements of Reality

by queen_jadis



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Baby Watson is dead, Friends to Lovers, Johnlock Roulette, M/M, Mary's gone, PTSD John, Rimming, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-09
Updated: 2015-02-23
Packaged: 2018-03-11 06:47:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,534
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3317966
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queen_jadis/pseuds/queen_jadis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the loss of Mary, the baby and the whole mess with Moriarty's return, John is done with feeling. Even when Sherlock returns from whatever he's been doing John can't muster the will to feel much about anything. Even when Sherlock starts spending his nights in John's bed, John can't really bring himself to care.<br/>Well. That last part isn't quite true, is it?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

He's been mostly numb since the divorce.

Well. Divorce is the wrong word. He isn't sure if there is a word for what happens to a marriage where one of the participants turns out never to have existed.

Probably not. The marriage has, then, in fact never existed, so the dissolution of it is therefore non-existent as well.

And that's how John feels these days. Non-existent.

It's like the way he felt after Sherlock. The fall.

Sometimes he suspects that being numb is really the default state of John Watson. Brief interludes of life, laughter and excitement are the exceptions.

Thankfully, this detachment spares him the roar of pain and anger. He doesn't blame himself. Not really. Not enough to break through the apathy.

Sherlock is gone again.

He doesn't know where. Maybe he's back on some insane adventure that John has no part of, like before. Maybe he’s turned back to drugs. Maybe he's being held in some deep, dark dungeon that the likes of Mycroft keep in the cellars of government for people who kill media moguls. John doesn't know.

He does _care_. Sort of. He wouldn't go as far as to say that he doesn't know and doesn't _care_. But not enough to find out. Not enough to ask Mycroft.

His baby is dead. A daughter. Killed mere hours after Moriarty appeared on the nation's television screens. By her mother's hand.

John isn't sure if Mary ever sat a nursing course, but she did have some skill in the area. Enough to make sure that Moriarty would never get near her child.

And neither would anyone else.

This is yet another thing that John doesn't know what to feel about.

Mycroft, however, has a name to what had happened to John. Widower. He supplied him with a death certificate and everything. Even a false funeral somewhere far away, where Mary's colleagues could send cards. She didn't know anyone well enough that they'd attempt turning up, Mycroft assured John. There was no empty casket, no priest, no dug up earth. Not like the last funeral Mycroft organized (well, the last one John knew Mycroft organised. Who knew how many of those a man like Mycroft might require throughout the year?) Just an address that accepted the cards.

John buried the stillborn child in London. By himself. Just John and the priest.

He declined Mycroft's muttered offer of a DNA test. The girl bore John's name on her headstone.

Then he went back to work. As people do, after a traumatic event. The world keeps on spinning. People need their warts removed and their rashes looked at. And while John isn't much use as a person these days, he can at least remove warts.

(He explained this to the receptionists. Told them to try to put everything that required a personal touch somewhere else. They knew and loved Mary and pitied him. He gets all the warts he wants.)

***

He should probably feel surprised when he finds Sherlock sitting on his sofa.

He doesn't.

When he walks into his living room and finds a dirty, dishevelled consulting detective on Mary's sofa he simply rubs his temples, gives a short nod and keeps on going into the bathroom where he proceeds to have his customary post-work shower. When he walks out again, he finds Sherlock still in the same position on the sofa.

“You next.” John throws him a clean towel without looking at him. Then he sits down in his chair and turns on the TV.

Sherlock doesn't move.

“Did someone die?” John asks bluntly.

Sherlock takes a breath as if about to list a long list of people.

“Mind you,” John speaks over him, “that by "someone" I mean Mycroft or your parents. Possibly Mrs. Hudson.”

“No,” says Sherlock slowly. “In that case, no one has died. No one at all.”

His voice is raspy, like it hadn't been used for a while. Or if it has been used, it's been misused.

“Right,” said John. “Just couldn’t think why you’d be here, except to tell me that someone had. Died, that is. Shower, then.” He points to the towel that had landed on the sofa, next to Sherlock.

Sherlock goes.

***

Sherlock is clearly dying to talk to John.

John can't be arsed to ask. People never tell him anything, so why bother asking?

But he doesn't kick Sherlock out either. When night falls John turns off the telly, goes to a closet and recovers a blanket that he hands to Sherlock.

He leaves his laptop on the sofa table in a wordless invitation to crack the password and use it for whatever it is that Sherlock does with laptops during the middle of the night.

He takes his sleeping pills before he goes to bed as he normally does. In the living room he can hear the faint sound of Sherlock typing on his laptop.

***

The next morning Sherlock is gone and John doesn't know if he should be furious or relieved. Like so often these days, he settles the matter by not feeling anything at all.

His laptop, however, is standing on the kitchen counter.

“You’re quite safe.”

Written in a bold font across the screen.

Well.

That's something, he supposes. He had, after all, wondered. What Sherlock’s presence might bring. He hadn’t worried, but the thought had occurred. He'd wondered if there was a reason why Sherlock hadn't gone back to Baker Street. And all in all it is preferable that no mad criminals might turn up at his door. No others than Sherlock, that is.

But he can't really feel much interest beyond that.

Which he, as a health care professional, knows to be a cause for serious concern. He really needs to book a new appointment with Ella. That’s what he’d tell anyone in the same position to do.

But damn, he doesn't relish telling her about the latest fuck ups in his story. The whole thing is becoming ridiculous. “The whole thing” being the entire life of John Watson, for crying out loud.

He rubs his temples as he makes his morning cup of tea. He's getting a headache.

*** 

When he gets home again that day, having removed three generously sized warts, and been puked on once (by an eighty year old woman – the nurses do their best in sparing him the children. “Considering.”) he is thoroughly unsurprised to find Sherlock on his sofa again.

He nods as he heads for the shower. When he gets back, Sherlock has already ordered the Chinese food.

John doesn't ask why he's there, rather than at Baker Street. He doesn't ask what happened with Moriarty. He doesn't ask after the health of his former wife. He doesn't ask anything. He just sits on his sofa, eats Sherlock's food and goes to bed. His and Mary's bed. His marital bed, even.

And when Sherlock joins him there, he doesn't question that either.

They're pushing forty and the sofa is a bit shit. Okay for watching telly, but not much good if you want any real kind of sleep. So John briefly considers blowing his fuse and ranting about personal space and so on and so forth, but in the end he decides... not to.

He hardly knows that Sherlock is there. His subconscious mind is used to another form being close to him in sleep. Sherlock doesn't move much, doesn't talk in his sleep and doesn't steal the covers.

Naturally, John muses, this unexpected good night-time behaviour might have something to do with the fact that Sherlock hardly ever sleeps. So maybe he just stays awake all night, concentrating on not being an annoying bedmate?

Which is frankly absurd. When has Sherlock Holmes concerned himself with being considerate... anything?

So John tries not to think about it too much. It's rather disturbing and he tries to avoid things that are disturbing these days.

Which is most things, if he's honest.

"We need to move," he says one evening as they're going to bed.

"Naturally," answers Sherlock, as if he'd just been looking over the classifieds.

"I can't stay here," says John.

"I know," says Sherlock.

John closes his eyes and balls his fists. He tries again.

"I mean - I need to move."

"No, you don't. You just said so. We need to move." Sherlock doesn't look up from his laptop, and really, when did he bring that? Has he moved in, without John noticing? What is his plan in this bizarre arrangement?

Surely "they" can't move anywhere.

Not now.

Not after spending the last ten nights together.

Would they be looking for a flat as... Friends? Colleagues? Something different? And what, if (as once before) a landlord would ask them if they "needed" a second bedroom. What would they say? What would Sherlock say?

Well. Obviously they would say that they bloody well did. Goes without saying. Clearly. John isn't willing to give up on his love life for a platonic love affair with his flatmate. He might be old and broken and defeated - but he still isn't willing to permanently give up on looking for love.

Well. He might be ready to give up on love. Maybe. But he isn't ready to give up on sex just yet, thank you very much.

But SHOULD a landlord ask the question, John can't very well say that, could he? Not while looking at Sherlock's face.

This is all fucked up, just like the rest of his life.

Work is shit, his family (such as it is) is shit, his home, filled with relics of his failed marriage and his dead baby, is shit - everything is shit. Everything except coming home in the evening and finding Sherlock there, silent, dependable and slowly (did he imagine it was happening subtly?) turning John's (Mary's) kitchen into a make-shift lab. And then going to bed with him.

That part doesn't FEEL like shit. It feels like the only thing that keeps him going through the day. But - shockingly - upon this closer examination it is turning out to be shit just like the rest of it.

Brilliant.

John gives up on the discussion and buries his nose in the covers and tries to fall asleep.

He can _hear_ Sherlock’s frown on the other side of the bed.

***

Obviously, he finally snaps.

Not at Sherlock, though. Sherlock has been trying his very best at being inoffensive and even sometimes succeeding (he's Sherlock, after all - he wouldn't feel like the same person if he suddenly turned into the perfect housemate. But he's trying).

No, John snaps at one of the nurses. It's something innocent - he's not even sure what sets him off. If it's her alluding to the sad demise of his wife (she's one of the ones who sided with Mary during the long weeks when they weren't on speaking terms. She doesn't believe John ever deserved her or deserves to be upset at her supposed death) or if it's her clumsiness, her poorly dyed hair or her frankly annoying shirt.

Probably the unprofessionalism, he tells himself, but he's a bit worried that the other parts might also play a part.

That dye job is honestly awful.

His outburst is short, as they usually are. He throws a nearby coffee mug on the floor, yells a few curse words and nurse Olive flees the room. Takes less than 15 seconds all told.  
He takes ten times longer calming himself, gearing up to apologise. Schooling his features into something appropriate for the eyes of patients. Even wipes up the coffee and throws the broken mug into the trash.

(Mary would've liked that, he thinks as he gathers everything up. Would've said it's out of character, though.)

And he feels out of character. His heart is still beating furiously in his chest but he hopes he's exuding calm.

He leaves the break room to go find Olive but is intercepted by Sarah.

His annoyance flares again at the sight of her - clearly Olive ran straight from the room to tattle. Little idiot. Sarah is wearing an expression of soothing understanding and is clearly ready to talk him down from a towering fury. Like he’s an over-excited school-boy.

But that's not the thing that really gets John. The thing that really gets him is the look of... relief? Like the other shoe has finally dropped.

She grabs his arm and steers him into his office.

"Well, John, this has been a long time coming, hasn't it?"

Her smile is understanding and pitying in equal measure.

On John's desk there's a mug full of tepid tea.

Six minutes later John has been forcibly put back on medical leave. And escorted out.

He glares at Olive as he walks past her.

He can hear Sarah ask one of the receptionists to clean up the tea in his office.

***

He is trembling and not even sure why. Fury, yes, certainly. Humiliation, partly. But there is also a jumble of other stuff and he would very much like to go back to his non-feeling state of the last few weeks. He can't deal with a meltdown now. Especially not a meltdown that everyone seems to have been expecting, god damn it.

He doesn't remember any of the journey home, but he knows that when he gets there he's furious to find the flat empty.

Certainly he would've been even more furious to find Sherlock there, lounging about (he needs to have this breakdown by himself), but his absence nevertheless irritates him.

His trembling is now worse than ever - both in his bad hand and everywhere else. He can see a few options. He could get started on ruining everything in this beige hell that reminds him of Mary. He admits to himself that this will probably result in a house fire. He takes that into consideration and files the suggestion for later.

He could also get drunk. Seriously drunk. Puking and pissing all over himself drunk. Harry-levels of drunkenness.

He's not sure how it would help, but the thought certainly appeals.

Another option, a little voice whispers, is to go for the nightstand drawer. To go for his gun. To take the option that would neatly solve all of his problems, once and for all.

This little voice makes the same suggestion every time John makes a decision. It's been whispering in his ear for years. Should he buy yoghurt or regular milk? Well, either is fine - or he could just go home and shoot himself. That sort of thing.

It varies, how good John is at ignoring the little voice. He recognises that he might not be in the best frame of mind right now to deal logically with it.

But he doesn't succumb to the suggestion. Not right now, he whispers back to the voice. Maybe in a bit.

What he does is drag off most of his clothes, swallow a couple of his sleeping pills, and crawl into bed. Not on his usual side of the bed, but on Mary's side. What has, very recently, somehow become Sherlock's side of the bed.

He snuggles into the pillow, inhaling deeply. It smells of nothing much, but he imagines that he can detect a trace of Sherlock's shampoo.

He doesn't question this instinct, doesn't examine it, refuses to think about it. And in a while he's asleep.

He doesn't stir until the middle of the night, when he sits bolt upright.

"You don't have to wake up for another three hours," mutters Sherlock from beside him.

He's taken John's usual spot in the bed and is reading something of his phone screen.

"I don't have to wake up at all," John says as he rubs his temples.

He can feel the mattress jerk when Sherlock turns to look at him. Can hear his mind working as he examines evidence he probably didn't bother examining when he crawled into bed.

"You've been... sent on leave?"

His hesitation makes it clear that the word "fired" lingered on his tongue.

"Mhm. Did you know that you can be accused of physical assault without physically touching the assaulted?"

"Yes," says Sherlock.

"Of course you do," murmurs John. "Probably from experience.”

Sherlock huffs.

“They were all horribly understanding, of course. It appears to be both obvious and perfectly understandable that I am a madman."

"Mandatory counselling?"

"I'm not sure," says John, and finally lowers himself back onto his pillow. "Probably. I wasn’t really listening."

"Are you going to go?" Sherlock's face is impassive in the glow from his phone's screen.

"Might as well," sighs John.

"You could always get another job."

"Might be difficult without a reference from this one."

"I didn't mean in medicine."

The suggestion (offer?) lingers in the silence between them.

This is the longest conversation they've had since Sherlock came back. Maybe it's the darkness, maybe John's unusually mellow because of the meltdown - he isn't sure.

"I think I'll book an appointment with Ella," he says in the end.

"Right," says Sherlock softly and John illogically feels as if he's just thrown a mug full of cold tea in his face.

"It's just... I've got things to work through, Sherlock. Obviously."

"Obviously," Sherlock agrees. (From _the other side of the bed_ , John points out to himself. Clearly there's quite a bit of absurdity to work through.)

John wonders, then. He wonders about his friend, as he hasn't allowed himself to wonder about anything for months. He wonders what Sherlock is thinking when he comes into John's bed every night. He wonders what he does in the day. He wonders about Moriarty and the work and 221B.

He wonders why Sherlock is here. And why he's this considerate.

But all this wondering makes his head hurt. Thinking about Sherlock suggests that he should be thinking about a host of other things that he's been ignoring. John really can't deal with any of that at the moment.

He gets out of bed, reliefs himself, and returns to the wrong side of the bed. There he cuddles under the covers, so very glad not to be alone and whispers: "Thanks, Sherlock." Hoping it says enough.

Sherlock doesn't reply, but for a moment a warm hand gently clasps his shoulder.

When John wakes up again, he is alone.


	2. Chapter 2

He spends the first few hours of the morning doing not much of anything.

He reads the news sites, takes a shower, nibbles on whatever he finds in the kitchen. And then, in the silence, he comes to a decision.

When Sherlock returns, late in the afternoon, John has almost finished packing.

He hasn't done anything else, mind you. He hasn't contacted his landlord, he hasn't looked at flats online - but he has almost completely packed.

It isn't much. Clothes, mostly, that he fits in suitcases (he really perfected his shirt-folding during his short stint as an urban cyclist). Kitchen appliances. Books. And in the smallest box of all he fits his wedding album and a small, white teddy bear. As he tapes the box shut he isn’t sure if he'll ever open it again. But he'd like the option.

Sherlock stands perfectly still in the living room. The silence is unnatural for a man who usually has no filter between his brain and his mouth. But then Sherlock has been displaying unusual restraint in the verbal department lately.

"Baker Street?" John asks as it becomes clear that Sherlock isn't about to break the silence.

"What about it?"

"Is it safe? Are you still paying the rent?"

They’ve never talked about why Sherlock isn’t staying at 221B. John has assumed that some unhappy friends of Magnusson might be dogging Sherlock’s every step, waiting for their opportunity for revenge.

Sherlock considers this. "Paying the rent? Probably not. I doubt it. Can't remember when I last paid a single bill, honestly."

John sighs.

"But I'm fairly certain that the flat remains as it was. Mrs. Hudson would hardly evict me without sending as much as a text."

"Mrs. Hudson doesn't text," John points out.

"No, she doesn't, does she?" Sherlock sounds mildly interested.

"So she might have? Evicted you?"

"Do you think that's likely," asks Sherlock and John has to agree that no, it doesn’t seem likely. Although it will probably take a while to get the flow of baked goods up to previous levels, if he's been financially starving an elderly widow, maternal relationship or not.

"So, can we go there? I can't..." He gestures around them.

"I'll call a cab." And Sherlock sweeps through the house, gathering up a surprising amount of things that have somehow migrated over to John's home in the last few weeks. And then he calls the cab.

John is a bit dismayed that all he needs to move house is a black cab. People his age should require moving vans. But he doesn't. Never has, really. So half an hour later he locks the door of his and Mary's house behind them.

He knows it won't be the last time. He knows that eventually he'll need to come back and empty it. Even if he finds a charity willing to clear it out in exchange for everything in it, he'll have to come back. But the act still has an air of finality to it.

They are silent on the way to Baker Street. John realises when he sits in the back of the Cab, the traffic gradually slowing the car down, that he hasn't been to the city centre for months. And he's missed it. It feels easier to breathe here. He can feel his focus expanding a bit from his personal hell.

The suitcases are piled onto the sidewalk (this is the first airing they get since his honeymoon). Sherlock takes some boxes and John takes his suitcase and together they drag his possessions into the flat.

Not into John’s room, he notices. Sherlock piles everything in the living room, as if to allow John himself to decide the next step. Like he’s unsure into which bedroom he should move John’s things.

But this is the great thing about having gone back to Baker Street, rather than finding a new flat. There is nothing to decide. John's things obviously go into the room that's known as "John's room." Nothing to think about.

He labels his kitchen appliances clearly. With short, precise threats of violence should they come near any disgusting experiments. They both know that this is pointless, but the ritual feels comforting.

Sherlock makes tea while John carries his things upstairs. Within minutes they are both settled in their old chairs.

Sherlock gives John a small smile, and that careful smile - more than anything - shows John how much Sherlock has been tiptoeing around him.

"Right," he says. "You can go back to being a dick, now."

Sherlock raises an eyebrow.

"Honestly," John insists. "This considerate version of you is giving me the willies. I’m back now, we can go back to normal."

But instead of grinning, as he expects, Sherlock frowns.

"Noted," he says stiffly and reaches for his laptop.

John spends the rest of the afternoon wondering exactly what he said wrong.

 

He knows they can't afford to eat take-out every night, but he's exhausted after the burst of activity that culminated in him moving, and he can't really face going to the shops. Even though it means that they'll have nothing for breakfast in the morning.

(Sherlock seems to have taken his advice to heart and has given completely up on being considerate. Has, in fact, also given up on being civil, so John orders something Indian without consulting his new flat-mate.)

Seriously, though, is it fair that _John_ should be the one tip-toeing around _Sherlock_? After everything?  But it does have an easy sort of normality to it. 

They eat in silence, Sherlock taking notes all the while, closely watching his experiment. Which seems to contain John’s favourite scarf – or what’s now left of it. Definitely no longer being considerate. 

But when John turns on the TV after dinner, Sherlock gravitates towards the sofa, like so often at the house, and they watch Would I Lie to You. 

Sherlock can always tell if the contestants are lying or not. 

(Except once, but Sherlock makes an excellent case for David Mitchell really having had an embarrassing cross-dressing incident when he was fifteen, so John awards him the point anyway.) 

Slowly they relax in each other's presence again and John starts to feel that he's been forgiven for his earlier faux-pas – whatever it was. But as the evening draws to a close, Sherlock starts fidgeting. 

He gets up, plays half a song on his violin, checks something he has in the freezer (John vows not to look), changes his clothes, turns some lights off and others on until he declares that he's leaving the flat. 

John knows better than to interrupt him when he's in one of _those_ moods. 

And then John is alone in 221B for the first time since... Since he packed up his things and left, after the Fall. 

It's becoming something of a routine, isn't it? To abandon his homes with just his essentials, because he can't bear to stay there any longer. A pattern, his mind suggests, is probably the word Ella would use. 

He mounts the stairs slowly. His limp hasn't exactly returned, but he is more aware of his leg these days, and it irritates him to no end. 

He makes his bed (he failed to pack any sheets or towels, but thankfully there is an old set in a cupboard here, left since he last lived here. Apparently this is something he always overlooks when swanning of in a panic.) 

He takes a couple of sleeping pills and goes to sleep. 

It takes a long time. 

Although everything is familiar, he hasn't seen those shadows or heard those sounds for three years. It will take a while to get used to it, he tells himself. 

He hears Sherlock come in sometime after midnight. Hears him open the doors carefully, take a few steps into the flat and then - a door is slammed. 

Well. A few months a go he would've said that Sherlock being considerate for six whole seconds was probably the end of his limit, anyway. And he did encourage him to go back to being a total berk. 

But John (no matter what he might look like when compared to Sherlock's massive intellect) is not stupid. He’s not completely unaware of what has upset Sherlock. 

But, honestly, they're two grown men who do not have a physical relationship. Obviously, when living in a flat with two beds, they'll each take their own. They’ve had these two rooms for years. 

It wouldn't make any sense. And besides - he can't imagine any way of initiating that particular conversation. Or crawling willingly into another man's bed without it suggesting anything more than a desire to sleep in proximity to him. 

While things happened naturally at the house, he can't imagine a similar situation occurring here. 

But still. 

He misses it. He can admit that, there in the darkness. Talking about it, though. Out of the question. Examining it too closely seems fairly hopeless too. If he is to unleash some of his bottled up feelings, he fears that all sort of unpleasantness might come out. 

Isn't it unfair that to figure out why you want to share a bed with your male, platonic friend, you need to go through a grieving process for a dead child? You need to think about your non-existent wife and what all that meant for you? 

John squeezes his eyes shut and turns on his other side. 

It doesn't bear thinking about. 

In the morning he finally makes the call to Ella's office. 

They fit him in later that week. John has a feeling that Ella might have labelled his name on the registry - "NB: Total basket case who avoids therapy. Should he call things must be truly spectacularly fucked up. Give the nearest appointment." 

(Ella would probably say that this is his paranoia talking and that they need to go over his trust issues again. He decides not to mention it at the appointment.) 

 

"Hello, John," she says when he enters the room, not displaying any surprise at his presence. "How are you?" 

"Good," says John without thinking. "Great. You?" 

She smiles. This is familiar territory for the both of them. 

"And really? How's fatherhood treating you?" 

For a moment he can’t breathe. 

He last saw her shortly after the wedding. He told her about the shock of the pregnancy but he was happy then. Truly happy, if a bit bewildered and worried about his qualifications to be a father. They'd talked through that and John felt better and on the way home he bought a tiny little pair of pyjamas. Mary had laughed at him when he brought them home, but told him she loved them. 

"It's... It's not, actually." 

John can feel his face still as he looks back on Ella, unable to find the words but fearing that she can read it all in his carefully blank expression. His blank expression can, apparently, be fairly telling. 

And she can. At least some of it. Her face falls and John grimaces. 

And so he starts telling her about the last few months. Slowly, haltingly he forces himself to put it all into words. Avoiding some of the things that sound too absurd for people that don't know that people like Mycroft Holmes exist. 

That's not a lot, really. The story is absurd, certainly, but not wholly unbelievably so. 

"I think," she says, "that this will take more than just this one session, John." 

He barks out a laugh at the understatement. 

Right. 

She pencils in a few new appointments, closely spaced together. Once she's done, they still have a few minutes left. "

So? Back to living with him,” she asks. “How’s that working for you?” 

"It's... It's actually pretty good," he says and smiles for the first time since the appointment began. 

She raises her eyebrow and inclines her head. He knows what she's thinking. She's thinking about the months of grief therapy that he didn't have, but desperately needed. She's thinking about all the questions that she's asked him about Sherlock through the years that he's been unable to answer. 

But the fact remains that Sherlock is the only good thing they've mentioned this session. The only thing that makes John feel better. 

"It's... It's complicated," he says, "but really good." 

"How?" 

"How is it good? Or how is it complicated?" 

"Either." 

"Uhm," John looks down at his hands. "I don't need to explain things to him. He knows about everything that's happened." 

"And does he know how you feel about what's happened?" 

John huffs a laugh. "He's Sherlock Holmes. He probably knows better than I do." 

"Really?" She seems surprised. "I didn't think that... feelings, were his strong suit. From what you've said." 

"He's excellent with feelings. Motives are feelings. He can usually figure out pretty quickly what sordid feeling drives a person to action. You have to understand things about human nature to be able to do that." 

He feels oddly defensive on behalf of Sherlock, but on the other hand the speech feels absurd. "Excellent with feelings"? He hopes Mycroft isn't still bugging Ella's office - he's probably asphyxiating with laughter if he's listening in. 

"Right. So you've talked?" 

"We don't need to," says John and smiles, just as her little timer goes off.

 

He has a headache after the appointment, like he usually does. In spite of ending the session on a light note, the whole thing was a bit of an ordeal. He knows that to enjoy the world again, to start seeing colours again, to laugh at stupid jokes and to do all the stupid stuff that make life worth living, he'll need to do this. 

But this first session has left him raw - the colours are glaring, the noises overbearing, the sorrow for everything he's lost closer to the surface than ever before. 

He just wants to go home. 

Baker Street is soothing. The smells, the sounds, the people. Nothing there abuses his senses. He feels an enormous sense of relief when he ascends the stairs. 

Even when he goes up to his bed and collapses, crying until his pillow has gone from damp to wet. 

When it's over he slips downstairs to shower and then moves quickly back upstairs. He can't face anyone right now. 

He spends a few hours on the computer before taking his sleeping pills. He feels bone weary - but not sleepy (he really should try a new brand of pills). An unfortunate situation that he can’t really do much about. He feels alone and vulnerable, and that, his (possibly a bit drugged) mind suggests, is a condition that he can do something about. 

Sherlock didn't sleep in his bed at the house just because the sofa sucked, John reasons. Sherlock, for one, had a perfectly serviceable bed at the time. Here. In 221B. If it was sofas that he objected to, then he had other options. No, he did it, in his odd way, to be a friend. To be close. To be a comfort to John. A wordless comfort ("See! We don't need to talk about it!" he tells an imaginary Ella). 

So... It stands to reason that he might be willing to doing it again, doesn't it? If John still needed a bit of comfort? If John asked? 

Asked. 

As if. 

And so he lies there, staring at the ceiling, not moving. Not asking. 

"But you don't need to talk about it," his (possibly a bit drugged) mind suggests. "You've been saying so all day. And he didn't talk about it. Back at the house." 

And that's how John, muttering to himself about what a class idiot he is, takes his blanket in his arms and stomps grumpily downstairs. Sherlock is on the computer in his armchair, but John pointedly doesn't look at him. He walks straight across to Sherlock's room, where he turns of the lights and settles himself on his bed. 

He can hear Sherlock stand up, walk the few steps down the hall and hesitate in the doorway. 

John is facing away from him, inhaling that stupid shampoo-smell of the pillow, and doesn't move. Certainly doesn't talk. 

But he's asking. Clearly he's asking. Mr. "Excellent with feelings" should be able to understand that. 

After a moment Sherlock sits on his side of the bed, as if waiting for John to yell at him - to kick him out of his own bedroom. But John still doesn't move except to draw his blanket closer. 

After a moment Sherlock slides under the covers next to him. 

The lights are still on in the hallway and Sherlock is still wearing a button-down shirt and trousers (no socks, though. Sherlock has a strange aversion to socks when around the flat). He clearly wasn't planning to go to bed right now. But John asked and Sherlock isn't saying no. 

John lets out a shaky breath that he didn't know he was holding. 

"Bad day?" whispers Sherlock, sounding unsure. 

So much for not talking. 

"Mhm." John knows Sherlock can see him nodding in the light from the hallway. 

Sherlock doesn’t say anything to that. After a moment he moves closer to the middle of the bed. And then John can feel his arm touching his waist. Just sitting there. Warm and big and comforting. 

"Is this... is this okay?" Sherlock shouldn't sound this unsure about anything, John thinks. 

Usually he only sounds like this when he's done something wrong or inappropriate (either at a crime scene or in the kitchen) and doesn't understand why John is upset. 

He shouldn't sound like this when he's doing everything right. He shouldn't sound like this when he's being the best, most loyal friend John can imagine. 

"Mhm." John nods again and moves a bit closer to Sherlock, drinking in his heat, thinking about how much he missed this. 

He decides not to think too deeply about that at the moment, but drifts off to the soundest sleep he's had for weeks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This got away from me and I was unable to reach the smut in just two chapters. I remain hopeful for the third one ;)


	3. Chapter 3

John has, to his surprise, started feeling it’s quite normal to wake up in bed with Sherlock Holmes.

Now that they both know that this isn't a temporary arrangement, it feels even more intimate. It's lovely. Domestic and... Comforting.

And yet, John has started to doubt his repeated assurances to Ella. He isn’t quite sure that the best part of his relationship with Sherlock is how they don't talk about things.

Because while Sherlock's warm body next to his sometimes feels like the only reliable thing in the world, sometimes John feels like the situation rather adds to the turmoil in his head.

He's working through his issues. He talks to Ella about his marriage. And what it does to a person with trust issues to find out that their spouse is little more than their imaginary friend. And he's working on his feelings about his daughter (although he politely declined Ella's offer of finding him a support group).

He's gone to the grave, a couple of times.

He's even sent Nurse Idiot a letter of apology, at Ella's suggestion. Sarah called him later that day, seemingly overjoyed to get some sign that he hadn't gone completely round the bend. She’d clearly been worried that she might never reclaim this particular member of staff.

John knows he still has miles to go.

He stays in the city centre. Sometimes he doesn't leave the flat all day. But last week, Sherlock offered him to join him on a case, and John accepted.

To be honest, most of his life revolves around Sherlock Holmes. And that's tricky.

Because there are things complicating his relationships with Sherlock Holmes.

Such as – just to name a completely random example - erections.

John is a doctor. He knows they are normal. He knows he should be _pleased_. PTSD can result in all sorts of problems in that area that he, apparently, has been spared. That's good.

The problem was contained to mornings, at first. With his nostrils filled with Sherlock's smell, his skin touching Sherlock's sheets and often some part of him touching Sherlock himself.

Perfectly natural, if a bit embarrassing. Especially if you're sleeping next to the world's most observant man.

Then they started coming on in other situations.

Like when standing next to Sherlock on a crowded tube. Or just sitting next to him on the sofa. Or when he's in the shower, idly considering having a wank and an image of Sherlock pops into his head. Making the idea of a wank no longer idle.

This is worrying on several levels. John doesn't need to list them - they're obvious to anyone who's met either John or Sherlock.

Hopefully, he decides, this is simply a side effect of him not having had sex for months. That can seriously mess with your head (and John would know - he was in the army).

But finding a solution to that problem isn't easy.

The last woman he slept with was Mary. Finding a new girlfriend is a seriously big step (note to self: discuss with Ella).

Secondly - well, he spends his nights with Sherlock. Planning to spend a night with someone else - nameless and faceless as that person might be - feels... Odd.

Clearly he wouldn't bring her home to 221B, lead her through the flat, past Sherlock and up to his bedroom. That would be _terribly_ rude.

But spending the night somewhere else, without discussing it with Sherlock, feels like a betrayal.

And that's how John Watson realises he's in a relationship with Sherlock Holmes.

He feels like this should be an even more of a shock than it is.

He wonders if Sherlock knows.

***

That night, he doesn't say anything as they go to bed, like usual.

(Like USUAL? How on earth did he miss the relationship-bit of their friendship until now?)

How does a man proceed, following this sort of a revelation?

Should he start buying Sherlock flowers? Kissing him goodbye as he leaves the flat? Offering him the larger slice of pie at lunch? (No, let's not get ahead of ourselves, John tells himself. Sherlock hardly eats anyway - he wouldn't even want the larger slice.)

This is the sort of thing John does, when he's in a relationship.

To be fair, he hasn't ever been a great boyfriend. According to some people. His ex-girlfriends, mainly. Even Mary, who consented to marry him, often cheerfully told him that she was the one keeping the whole relationship going, and John had agreed with her.

But several of his girlfriends HAVE told him that he's a great and considerate companion for Sherlock, so maybe he shouldn't change anything? (He’d always considered this comment nothing more than an irritated jibe from soon-to-be-ex girlfriends, and it’s worrying to be suddenly taking it at face value)

And then there's the other thing.

The other thing boyfriends do with their partners.

The thing that Sherlock considers "not his area."

John doesn't consider it "his area" either. Not when no women are involved, at least. Certainly, he's tried things. He happened upon a threesome or two in Uni (who didn't?), but he's never done anything with a man in a one-on-one setting. If sleeping with Sherlock doesn't count. Which, John thinks, it doesn't.

This is all giving him a headache and he turns grumpily on his side, away from Sherlock.

John needs to figure out a few things:

a) If he is in a relationship with Sherlock Holmes, does he want to take that to the next level?

b) How would one go about figuring out if said Sherlock Holmes is interested in said level, and if he isn't, if he'd take offence when John put on the moves?

c) If John decides this is all a horribly bad idea - does he have to break up with Sherlock Holmes? (Because John isn’t eager to try sex-less life as a permanent lifestyle choice.)

The one thing John does know is that he doesn't want to lose Sherlock. All choices must be made with that in mind.

And - John Watson is not gay, a small part of him points out from the back of John's head. Not gay at all. Does not want to "come out" to Harry, goddamn it, does not want Mycroft as a brother-in-law, does not want to deal with Mrs. Hudson's squeals of joy, does not want to be known as Dr. John Gay Watson to all his friends.

But he does want Sherlock's cock.

That is a fact that is a bit confusing and a bit disturbing and more than a bit arousing.

He’s still gnashing his teeth when he finally falls asleep.

***

While John is having this meltdown, Sherlock is just the same as ever. He yells at the telly, he does unspeakable things to stuff in the bathtub, he summons John to crime scenes where he proceeds to ignore him, he eats take-out, he makes tea and he sleeps next to John every night.

John has stopped taking the sleeping pills, useless as they were. He sometimes gets nightmares, but they're not as bad when he's not alone.

Sherlock is often still awake when John starts thrashing about. He places his had on John's shoulder, shifting closer to him so that they're touching all along each other's sides. And John feels better.

John is sure that he sometimes does it without John ever waking up, shifting from nightmare to deep slumber without realising it.

***

"Hey, Sherlock?"

"Mhm?" Sherlock is buried in a local newsletter from Anglesey (in order to know a stupid amount of things, he needs to read a stupid amount of stupidly obscure things) and doesn't look up.

"Let's go out. Angelo's. My treat." John has, after mulling things over, decided that erections aside, he should try to step up his game in the friend-department. He hasn’t been a very generous friend for the past few weeks and he wants to start changing that.

"You can't afford it," says Sherlock, again without looking up.

"I can," John bites out.

"Nope," Sherlock says, popping the p. "And really, John, you should try to be a little more ambitious in choosing passwords for your online banking needs than you are with your email."

"Fine.” John closes his eyes and counts to ten. Tries again. “Hey, Sherlock? Let's stay in. Instant noodles. My treat."

This gets his attention.

"You'll do the thing with the eggs and the ginger and the... Whatnots?"

"I don't know. I'll need to consult my financial analyst on whether I can splurge on eggs."

Sherlock pretends to mull this over. "He says it’s fine."

"Great. Eggs and whatnots it is."

Staying in works better, anyway, John thinks. More casual. More privacy. Not THAT sort of privacy, just enough privacy to discuss things. Classified things. Things he should've talked about to Sherlock weeks ago, but was unable to.

He unearths a bottle of wine and gets going on the noodles.

It's not a date, he tells himself. He's just being nice. He's thanking Sherlock for taking care of him for the past few weeks.

That's important. Showing that he cares.

Morning wood completely aside. Those are two very different issues and John would never try to further one of those issues under the guise of the other. Because that would be both wrong and unethical.

However, he notices his hands shaking a bit when he pours the wine.

He decides against candles.

Sherlock seems to understand the phantom of candles in the room, though, when he looks at the table John has set for them. His eyes linger on the table, as if to figure out what is missing.

When they sit down, the atmosphere is oddly formal - almost tense.

"Cheers," John raises his glass and Sherlock returns the gesture.

"It's nice," Sherlock says as he swallows his first bite of food. "The whatnots. In the food."

This is probably as close to "thanks for dinner" as Sherlock gets and John smiles.

After a prolonged silence he gives up on his idea of a heart to heart. He grabs for a topic from the newspapers at random.

"So, do you think the Minister really did it or are those photographs fakes?"

It works - Sherlock lights up like a lightbulb (familiar with the case even if he has no idea who the minister in question is) "John, surely even you can see..."

After dinner they move back to the sofa with their glasses. Usually, at this point, either one of them would reach for the remote controller, but neither does.

"Hey, Sherlock?"

"Mhm?"

"Thanks." John tries to say more, but he can't. And it doesn't matter, Sherlock understands anyway.

"No problem," Sherlock replies in a low voice.

"Sherlock?"

"Mhm?"

"Will you tell me what happened? After you came back?"

They've never discussed this before. John has never asked, Sherlock has never offered. But John knows that if it's one thing Sherlock Holmes thrives on, it's an audience.

"Are you really... Do you really want to hear this?" Sherlock seems unsure.

"Yeah, I really do. Go on," John smiles. "Tell me all about how clever you are."

Sherlock grins, draws his legs under himself and ducks his head. "Oh, John, you wouldn't believe how clever."

And he's off. Describing digital tracking, mad chases, endless deductions and a fiery showdown, where Janine (Janine!) was apprehended, operating the whole thing from her cottage in Sussex Downs.

"His sister? Really?"

Typical. Just when John thought his wedding couldn't have been more fake, it turns out that the maid of honour was the sister of the generation's most twisted criminal mastermind.

"Obvious," mutters Sherlock.

"Really? Obvious? So you knew all along?"

"Well, suspected."

"Really. So you did... Things with her. Knowing she was your arch enemies sister?"

"To be fair the siblings of arch enemies are often exemplary human beings," Sherlock says with a twinkle in his eye. It takes John a second to realise that he's referring to Mycroft.

"I don't believe you," says John. “You're very clever, but not that clever. You just used her as a tool to get to Magnusson. You would've been much more interested in her if you'd realised she was Moriarty's sister."

"How much more interested in her could I get?" Sherlock says with an eyebrow waggle.

"Ugh. Sorry, that's a mental image I could've done without, thanks."

That's not quite true, he thinks, as pictures of dark hair and white skin flash before his eyes. Janine was quite fit, after all. You'd have to be blind not to notice. But still. It's the sort of thing mates say to each other.

"But anyway, she wasn't close to him. Not exactly in his closest circle."

"Did he have a close circle? Granted, I didn't know him very well, but he didn't seem like a trusting type. I'm basing this on our quality time spent with several pounds of semtex between us."

"He had... Accomplices. Some minions he trusted more than others."

"And where are those minions now?"

"No longer a concern," says Sherlock and John can see the shadows of Russia, Serbia, India and Santa Barbara (Santa Barbara?) in his face as he says it. And suddenly he aches from the loss of innocence in his friend.

"So, Mycroft has Janine, the whole thing has been shut down, and no member of the Moriarty family is any concern of ours anymore?"

"That's just about it, yes. Naturally, Mycroft had to fluff it up a bit for his superiors."

"Mycroft has superiors?"

"Not as such, but yes. He has people to answer to, procedures to follow. Sometimes. And he needed to make Janine seem a bit more dangerous than she really is."

"So they wouldn't send you back? To Serbia?"

"Mhm."

"And... And Mary? Do you know anything about…?"

Sherlock looks pained. "Are you sure you want to talk about this?"

"Yes."

"In prison. In America. Unlikely ever to see the daylight again. The CIA was most pleased when Mycroft returned her to them."

"So she was..."

"In Sussex Downs, yes."

"Working with Janine?"

"Mary was close to Moriarty for years. But in the end, obviously, she had reason to suspect he wouldn’t be very pleased with her. That he might wish to take out revenge.”

The ghost of John’s baby lingers in the room.

Sherlock continues. “She was quicker than I was to figure it out, and finding Janine. So while she wasn't a part of this particular plot when it started, she joined Janine in the end. Mary always knew when to change sides, if needed.”

The relaxed mood has evaporated.

"I... I think I should go to bed," is all John can say as he downs his glass, still thinking about the tiny white coffin.

Sherlock doesn't reply.

John mindlessly brushes his teeth and undresses.

It's good, isn't it?

He feels better. Knowing that she isn't out there. That she isn't charming some other poor fucker. Starting a new family under a new name. Isn't out there shooting people.

Knowing that he won't someday spot her on the Tube.

But still.

This is surely what Ella means by "trigger."

He stares at the sleeping pills for a while and ends up grabbing the bottle and swallowing two. (He's a bloody doctor - he knows how to responsibly mix sleeping pills and alcohol, damn it.)

When Sherlock gets into bed a few minutes later, John doesn't turn towards him. He does, however, edge closer to the centre of the bed until they're touching from shoulder to toe.

After a moment Sherlock turns on his side and carefully cradles John in his arms.

It takes John several minutes to stop shaking, Sherlock holding him all the while.

***

The morning is normal, in spite of the emotional upheaval of the previous night.

John has, as has started to become fairly typical, turned in the night and is snuggled close to his platonic, best friend upon waking. He ignores (as usual) his erection, murmurs a greeting and moves to the bathroom.

In the afternoon he has an appointment with Ella, where he successfully deflects her questions about Sherlock by talking about dead offspring and imprisoned wives. Afterwards he emails Sarah to tell her that Ella has written him a note declaring him to be neither a threat to himself nor anyone else.

(John objected to that wording, as it suggested that he had at any point been either of those things. Ella said that this was standard phrasing in cases of people who'd thrown more than one cup of hot liquid within the span of one hour.)

In the evening Lestrade calls, and Sherlock decides to take the case, even though it's barely a five, because he'd been wanting to get samples from an interesting ditch in the area.

They go, solve the case, get the sample, and a good time is had by all. (All apart from the poor sod who was murdered with a ballpoint pen, obviously.)

They pick up some food on the way home and eat in front of the telly. It feels relaxed, in a way that nothing has since before Magnusson, and oddly domestic.

Sure, they'd been domestic before. Before the fall, before Mary. They'd shared meals, quibbled over bills, spent time together and fought about household chores. But somehow, retiring together to bed every night has made it all feel even more intimate. And after finally offering Sherlock the chance to break his silence, last night, their friendship feels relaxed and close again.

Not all _that_ close, though.

John has started to feel the urge, occasionally, to touch Sherlock. To place a hand on his back to guide him somewhere, or to sit close to him on the sofa, or (for crying out loud) to glide his fingers through his hair.

But he doesn't.

He knows they're not a couple. He knows that Sherlock isn't looking for things like that.

Clearly, Sherlock must be aware how their physical proximity affects John. Sherlock notices everything. If he was interested, it would be the easiest thing in the world for him to initiate... Something. The fact that he doesn’t speaks for itself.

And so John sits there, on the sofa, feeling every inch that separates them, pathetically counting down the minutes until they can go to bed and touching will be allowed again.

Sherlock always follows him to bed. Sherlock, who hardly needs sleep, always goes to bed when John does, and stays there the whole night.

John has, on several occasions, been close to telling him that he's feeling much better now. That he doesn't need quite that much taking care of. But he doesn't know how to phrase that without potentially saying something stupid.

Sherlock might even decide that the bed sharing is then not necessary at all, which would be a Very Bad Thing. So John doesn't say anything.

They’ve settled in Sherlock’s bed and turned off the lights when John asks what he’s been wondering.

Of all the things that should’ve been dwelling on – this is the thing he voices there in the darkness. And feels like the world’s greatest prick the moment the words leave his lips.

“So, did you really? With Janine?”

“What?” Sherlock sounds honestly startled.

“It’s just, that you didn’t deny it. Last night.” John is blushing furiously in the darkness. Why the hell did he start this conversation and why the hell isn’t he stopping it?

“Why do you ask?” They aren’t used to speaking much in bed. No wonder Sherlock’s baffled.

“I’m sorry. It’s none of my business. I just wondered. How far you’d be willing to go. For a case.” It sounds feeble even to his own ears.

“I think you’ve had… that sort of relations on a much more feeble basis than a case.”

“Right. Of course.” Does that mean that he did? Because Janine was seriously hot, and it would be perfectly understandable if Sherlock did go for it. Anyone would’ve. And it would be good to know that Sherlock isn’t completely averse to… Things like that. Although the thought makes him slightly sick.

Sherlock doesn’t say anything.

“So, do you think, you might need – I don’t know – maybe some… Help? To work that out?” Why, oh, why doesn’t he stop talking?

“Work what out?” Sherlock’s voice is in absolute neutral mode. He’s pretending to be half-distracted by his phone, but John knows this trick. He’s fairly sure Sherlock’s attention is on the conversation.

“Well, you’ve found out that she was… What she was. It can mess you up. Knowing that your ex was something other than you thought she was.”

“She’s hardly my ex.”

“Sherlock, she was almost your ex-fiancée. Ex-lover, at the very least.”

Sherlock huffs. “No, John. I don’t think I’ll need therapy to deal with _Janine_.”

Sherlock really has an excellent way of making John feel like a first class fool. If he’s going to urge Sherlock to seek therapy he probably should be focusing on his global murderous spree, rather than ex-girlfriends.

He’s almost asleep when Sherlock whispers again into the silence.

“Besides – she really wasn’t my ex-anything.”

If John didn’t already know what serious trouble he was in, the relief that floods him at those words would certainly tell him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, god, I'm always promising to finish this in the next chapter, and then I keep rambling on. Sorry! But yet again, I'll now promise that the smut (and the end) will be in next weekend's update.


	4. Chapter 4

The situation remains clear as mud.

John is still hopelessly aroused by the most annoying man in London, Sherlock continues not to make a move, and John can neither stay in the status quo (and remain celibate forevermore) nor give up the current situation (for some hypothetical girlfriend and source of sex).

But still - it's good.

Horribly, agonizingly annoying, but good. Sherlock and John work.

It's John's last day at home before returning to work at the clinic. He's spending it by the fire, sending out CVs.

He can't really bear the idea of staying there, with memories of Mary in every room, with Sarah, with Nurse Idiot and the rest of them. He'll do his walk of shame and return tomorrow - but it'll be easier to do that if he knows that he's taking steps to get out.

Sherlock is in his chair, across from John, his hair looking artfully tousled (his deduction about "Jim from IT" flits across John's mind. People who put product in their hair must be gay, indeed), browsing on his computer. Suddenly he looks up.

"Come on, John, we're leaving."

"Lestrade?"

"No, something from my inbox. If you're really set on going back to that horrible place tomorrow, we need to do something interesting tonight."

"The horrible place actually pays our bills."

Sherlock dismisses that with a wave of his hand.

***

"Sherlock, please tell me this isn't the Mafia. I don't want to be murdered by the Mafia."

"Of course it's not the Mafia," Sherlock whispers between clenched teeth. "It's just a little gang. Mafia wannabes at most. I don't expect them to become well known for another four or five years, at least."

John closes his eyes and takes a deep breath.

"And why didn't we call Lestrade? Surely we've seen enough criminal activity in the last hour to involve the Met."

"Ah, but the client wouldn't like that, would she?"

"Sherlock!" John is speaking through his teeth, battling the urge to tear at his hair. "We agreed. No aiding and abetting criminals! No matter how interesting the puzzle!"

"Well, the pickings in my inbox were slim. And we needed one last case." Sherlock is rifling through some papers on a side table, occasionally snapping photographs with his phone. They’re in a creepy old warehouse, and this appears to be a staff-room of sorts. Other parts of the building house weapons, stolen goods and some forgeries. John is actually rather impressed with the ambition of these criminals – they’re not afraid to branch out, apparently.

"There was no need to do something like this, Sherlock. There’ll be other cases. I'm not dying, you know, I'm just going back to work." John hesitates. "Unless your client and his friends actually manage to kill us tonight."

"Don't be stupid, she's very reliable and most unlikely to kill us herself."

"Oh, God."

"And I KNOW you're interested in ritualistic executions. Who isn't? I thought you'd be pleased."

John slowly bangs his head against a nearby wall.

"Can we just please go home?"

"Shh! Someone’s coming. In here!"

And that's how they end up squeezed together in the wannabe Mafia's wardrobe. While ritualistic killers hold what sounds like a routine staff meeting.

The wardrobe is small. Really small, and it’s a cheap IKEA number, so it probably isn’t very soundproof either. This is really, really bad.

_"Right, guys, I think we'll get started, even though Percy isn't here yet..."_

John and Sherlock move slowly and silently in the wardrobe, trying to fit themselves together in the tiny space, finding a position that might be sustainable for a while. Because head-gangster out there sounds as if this is going to take a while.

John is heroically not explaining to Sherlock just what he thinks of him and this stupid plan and this stupid not-mafia-gang of his, but only because he feels his life might hang in the balance. He is, however, putting together some choice phrases to use in his rant when (if) they get out of here.

_"Now, I'm not your mum. When you've used the break-room, you need to put your used mugs and plates in the dishwasher. We've talked about this every meeting, guys, please try to..."_

Sherlock's breathing has sped up a bit and it makes John pretty terrified to realise that even Sherlock is afraid. Crap.

He moves a bit and puts his hand on Sherlock's arm, to steady him. (John might be royally pissed at Sherlock, but not enough to want him to go through a silent panic attack. Especially one that might actually get them both killed).

It doesn't help. Sherlock stiffens, and John becomes very aware of the fact that he's practically standing in Sherlock's arms.

His nose is almost in Sherlock's neck, his arm almost fitted around him, his hips pressed...

Oh, god.

_"And Percy, we've talked about this before, but if you continue to turn up late steps will need to be taken... It's simply not fair to the others."_

Oh, god, oh, god, oh, god. His hips are pressed stupidly close to Sherlock and it wasn't a problem a few seconds a go, but now that he has realised, it's very, very quickly becoming a problem.

Sherlock holds himself rigid and doesn't look at John. Which is good, because John can feel that he’s gone bright red there in the darkness.

John feels like he's drowning in Sherlock's smell and his closeness and why the hell does this feel more intimate than sharing a bed? They're wearing a lot more clothes than they do in bed, so this shouldn't be awkward. This shouldn't be tense. But damn it, it is.

_"Uh, boss, I have a thing? It's just that... Could we maybe consider buying a new brand of coffee for the office? Now that we're doing a bit better? 'Cause it's absolute swill, pardon my French..."_

Sherlock's fingers move, then. Just a tiny bit, but they were hovering around John's waist and now they move and John can't help his sharp intake of breath. And the fucking hip-to-thigh-situation has become utterly intolerable. John' closes his eyes and dips his head, accidentally (or is it?) almost resting his forehead on Sherlock's shoulder. Exposing his throat to Sherlock's breath. And John doesn't think he's imagining that it's become quicker still, where it ghosts over his skin.

_"Now, lads, it's a big day tomorrow, I want you all in your best shape, so let's get cracking - team A, get your asses down to the gym, team B, you'll get working on the SWOT analysis for the project, and team C - get the recycling out of here and then do something about this damned break-room, okay?"_

The head-gangster sounds exactly like any other middle-manager in the world and John needs to remind himself that the project they're talking about is murder and mutilation.

That’s right. That’s what he needs to think about, rather than Sherlock’s smell. He needs to focus.

But then he stops thinking about anything as chairs scrape floors and the possibility of any of those goons having a coat in the tiny little wardrobe in the corner of the room becomes frightfully real.

Sherlock's arm slips around his waist and tightens there, and they both hold their breaths as the wannabe-mafia members file out of the room, not one of the bothering to open the wardrobe.

***

"Where are we going?" John breathes as he follows Sherlock out from the warehouse, away from bloodthirsty, SWOT-analysing criminals.

"Back to Baker Street." Sherlock isn't meeting his eyes, but rather scanning the area for taxis.

"But...?"

"Well, clearly my client's twin was sleeping with the leader, which led to her murder. It wasn't a case of mistaken identity at all."

"Right, so your client...?"

"She was one of the top dogs in this organization. She would've remained so, if she hadn't panicked at the murder of her sister, gone underground and contacted me, wondering why her boss had wanted her dead."

"Well, yes, imagine that," John says drily. "Panicking at the murder of your twin. What a wimp."

"Wasn't really suited to a life of crime - probably good for her to realise that now rather than later."

It's as if the moment in the wardrobe never happened. Sherlock magics them a taxi and they return home. Sherlock (after a bit of prodding from John) calls the Met to tell them everything he knows about the gang and their current "project."

But the moment did happen. John isn't imagining that. Surely not.

But he's still not sure what exactly happened there.

Did Sherlock notice John's proximity and feel really, really uncomfortable? Or was it, perhaps, the other way around? Was Sherlock disgusted and disturbed or was he...

He couldn't have been.

Not now. Not after all those weeks.

But if he felt disgusted then he might want to... Well, he might not want to go to sleep with John. Tonight. If he noticed (and how could he not) the state John was in, he might now be worried about his virtue when sharing a bed.

This is all fucked up.

"I'm going out," John says, taking his laptop with him without waiting for a reply.

He spends the whole evening moving from cafés to bars and back again.

But he doesn't go back too late. Both because he needs to get up early in the morning, but also because he doesn't want Sherlock to go to bed without him. If Sherlock has gone to his bedroom and - and even closed the door - what would John do then? Knock? Or go upstairs for the first time for weeks?

It doesn't bear thinking about. He'll need some hint from Sherlock of what's expected. About what's allowed.

He can see him in the window as soon as 221B is in sight. Tall, thin and holding his violin, playing something that John couldn't for the life of him recognize, even if he could hear it.

John's heart aches at the sight, and that is bad.

 Grown men aren’t supposed to feel phantom aches at the sight of their... Damn it, he doesn’t even know what to call Sherlock in his own mind.  Aren’t people supposed to leave this sort of drama behind in their teenage years?

But he takes a deep breath and mounts the stairs. No use freezing his arse off out here.

"Hi," he says as he comes in.

Sherlock doesn't stop playing.

John picks up a few things in the kitchen and moves around the living room while Sherlock plays. He takes a shower (because a day spent on the move in London can make you seriously icky, even without any close calls with criminal gangs).  Still, Sherlock doesn’t speak.

"Sherlock?"

Again, he doesn't stop playing.

"Sherlock?"

He needs eye contact for this. He's thought this out. But for it to work out he needs eye contact.

Finally Sherlock looks up.

"I'm heading to bed," John says with a deliberate head-tilt towards Sherlock's room. And then waits.

This is his elegant solution. To give Sherlock the opportunity to ask John to kindly sleep somewhere else tonight. To take his erections and his snuggling and his nightmares to his own bedroom, thanks.

But Sherlock merely looks confused. When he slowly nods and watches John go.

He's followed him into the room before John has turned out the lights., slipping into bed without a word. He's not using his phone this time around. He's just there. Lying stiffly under the covers.

"I'm sorry," he finally says. "About today."

"It's fine," John says lightly. "No harm done. They didn't catch us, and you did manage to provide something exciting for my last day as a mental patient. Mission successful, I should think."

"That's... That's not what I meant."

Well, no. Obviously it wasn't.                                                   

John blindly reaches over and finds Sherlock's hand. Gives it a friendly squeeze, just to tell him that they're good. It's all good.

Only, they don't let go. They don't let go of each other's fingers and John isn't sure if it's Sherlock holding his fingers or John holding Sherlock's fingers but there they are, holding hands across the bed in the darkness.

And although they've often been in closer contact during the nights they've spent together, this feels different. Very different.

Sherlock didn't sleep with Janine, John reminds himself. Almost ANYONE would've slept with Janine, but not Sherlock. Because Sherlock doesn't work like that. He's not good with this stuff. Not when it's not means to an end.

But he's holding on to John's fingers. Knowing... Knowing everything. About John and how he reacted in the wardrobe and how he reacts every morning and he’s still not letting go.

Maybe this is as close as Sherlock can come to asking?

So John turns on his side, and very slowly raises his hand to Sherlock's cheek.

His fingers are trembling, just a bit. And he can see that Sherlock is awake and looking at him. But neither of them moves, apart from John's hand.

Sherlock's skin is warm under his fingers, and John cradles his best friend’s face, his thumb stroking his chin.

"Is this okay," John asks in a whisper, and Sherlock nods in the darkness.

And that - just that - has answered all the questions John might have had. Because now they're finally on the same page, and Sherlock does want what John wants and he can't help but smile like an idiot before he launches himself across the bed, flinging his arm across Sherlock's chest, burying his face in the crook of his neck, allowing his lips to caress the warm skin there.

"Still okay?"

But Sherlock doesn't answer, but rather moves quickly, flipping John onto his back, looming over him with wonder in his eyes.

His hands are in John's hair, they're on his neck, they're exploring his face.

Carefully and almost reverently - breathing fast like he did in that stupid wardrobe - he finally (finally!) leans down and kisses John.

And Christ, it's better than it has any right to be. There is more electricity in that kiss than in... Than in anything John has done with another person, ever.

That first touch of lips is enough to tell John everything he needs to know about what sex with Sherlock, a relationship with Sherlock, a life with Sherlock will be.

And that's before he's even tasted Sherlock properly.

But he doesn't wait to do that. He's eager to suck his bottom lip into his mouth, lick it and taste it and worship it in any way he knows how. And Sherlock - Sherlock who doesn't think of this sort of thing as "his area" seems blissfully eager to do the same, dipping his tongue between John's lips with passion and eagerness John had never imagined the great Sherlock Holmes might actually turn on him.

And John twists a bit under Sherlock, and gasps.

There's the evidence that Sherlock... Well, that Sherlock is truly interested in this. That Sherlock's "transport" is just as fickle as the next body, that Sherlock can be a slave to the baser emotions just like the rest of us.

And John can't help it, he smiles widely as he pushes his hips upwards, and who cares about being gay or straight or whatever? Sherlock wants him. Wants him just as much as John wants him, if the licking and kissing of his neck is anything to go by.

And John glides his hands into Sherlock's hair and this is all so wonderfully simple - not complicated at all, not something that makes everything messy, but something that helps John make sense of everything else.

This fits. They fit.

Sherlock is so long and so lean, and John allows his hands to drift from shoulder blades down to his impossibly narrow waist where he encounters warm skin underneath Sherlock's thin t-shirt.

"Off," he mutters and pulls at the shirt, and Sherlock complies easily, seemingly not wanting to do anything that might delay matters.

His skin is white and smooth, reminding John of the years he spent as a drug addict, but underneath are the muscles Sherlock has built up practising various self-defence methods, chasing criminals around London.

He’s beautiful.

It's much too tempting to touch everywhere - John doesn't want to stop, he can't even focus properly on the way Sherlock is fluttering kisses everywhere, biting an earlobe, removing John’s shirt, feeling everything, cataloguing John with nimble fingers.

John almost feels like he's a part of a puzzling crime scene and the thought feels arousing rather than disturbing - and isn't that typical of them?

Sherlock makes the best sound when John's hands find their way up to his nipples.

It's shock and joy and shyness all wrapped into one, making it impossible for John to do anything other than shifting until he can wrap his lips around it, flicking his tongue over it while Sherlock makes shallow gasping sounds again and again.

"What do you want," John asks, looking up at Sherlock and smiling.

"Do - do you mean long term or short term," Sherlock manages to gasp out, a smile playing on his lips.

John is glad Sherlock's smiling. He's glad they're having fun, that they're enjoying this together.

"Well, I was thinking short term, but either is fine."

Sherlock tugs on him, dragging him up for a kiss, making their groins slot together and John can't help groaning.

"I want everything," Sherlock whispers against his mouth and his hands are everywhere, stroking John's sides, ghosting the top of his arse, gently twisting his nipples.

"I'm not sure," John mutters, as he thrusts against Sherlock, "that we'll manage to cover quite everything in this go."

"There'll be others," says Sherlock, sounding so confident that John feels warm all over.

John thinks about apologising for his inexperience, but then decides it doesn't matter. He can’t think of this as his first time with a man, it's his first time with _Sherlock_. And that's nothing he's willing to apologise for.

And he doesn’t feel out of his depth. This feels just right, Sherlock's body feels familiar and exciting at once and John's fingers and lips move over it confidently.

"Do you have... Anything? Lube?"

"Nightstand," Sherlock gasps. His eyes have closed and his head is thrown back, and John has started to wonder if he'd be able to come from nipple play alone. But that's a theory to test at a later time, now he wants to get Sherlock out of his pyjama bottoms. He wants to smell, he wants to touch and possibly even taste.

He makes a grab for the nightstand, rummages about for the bottle of lube and as he twists away from Sherlock, he can feel him go for his back.

John has never really thought of his back as an erogenous zone, but Sherlock certainly treats it like one. He licks up and down the column of his back, he examines the scar on his shoulder with eyes, lips and fingers, he rains kisses all over John's skin in a way that make him arch his back, thrusting his arse in the air in what must seem like a shameless invitation.

An invitation that Sherlock seems eager to accept.

He nuzzles John's skin, he sniffs his most private spots, he both nibbles and kisses the flesh. And John has certainly tried - _that_ \- both giving and receiving, but never, ever during the first time with a new partner.

But he should've known, he thinks as Sherlock's hands inch under his hips, urging him to raise them further. He should've known that Sherlock wouldn't be squeamish about anything, that he'd want to try everything, taste everything. And then John doesn't think anything at all anymore, because Sherlock's tongue is there, moving up from his balls. And John is making all sorts of embarrassing noises, but it's okay because Sherlock is making noises too - noises of interest and greed and joy and arousal and that makes the whole thing even hotter, as his tongue sweeps over John's hole, making it twitch and shiver. Oh, god, John had forgotten that sex could feel like this - if he ever even knew.

Sherlock teases the rim of his hole, licking, sucking, kissing, blowing and John cannot think at all, cannot remember how all of this happened, all he knows is that this is the best thing he's ever felt.

He hardly notices when Sherlock removes the bottle of lube from his hand. He does notice, however, when Sherlock's finger joins his mouth. And he absolutely notices when a long finger slips into him, easily, and Sherlock's mouth finally leaves him.

"Christ, Sherlock," he pants, as Sherlock moves up the bed and a lube-slicked hand slides in front of him and grabs his throbbing penis.

John feels completely at Sherlock's mercy with one hand in him and the other one wrapped around him.

When Sherlock’s mouth starts raining kisses on his neck, John tumbles over the edge. He clenches around Sherlock's finger and comes all over his fist.

"You are magnificent, John," Sherlock whispers in his ear, which is all wrong, since John didn't do anything at all. All he had thought to do was to use the lube for a spot of mutual wanking - he didn't even have the imagination to try anything like what the mad genius next to him had in mind.

And yet Sherlock seems overjoyed.

John is still trying to see clearly, but he knows he needs to do something other than twitch there on the bed. He needs to show Sherlock exactly what John thinks of him. Needs to show him just what a man like him deserves after such a performance.

But John is tired and John is dizzy. So instead of doing something elaborate he just does what feels right and what feels straight forward. Something he doesn't think anyone has ever objected to, in the history of sex, so he feels quite safe going for that option.

Also - he really, really wants to, he thinks as he tugs Sherlock’s underwear down. He wants to know what Sherlock sounds like as John swallows him down, he wants to taste him, he wants to get to know every part of him.

And so John does. Sherlock doesn't disappoint, his sigh when John's lips touch him is almost broken, his taste is deep and intimate and when John has done enough licking and mouthing and takes him as far down as he can, John feels as if they were made for this, as if he could do this forever.

But it doesn't take forever. It just takes moments, really. Much too short for him to enjoy Sherlock's hands in his hair, to admire his trembling thighs and to revel in the sheer power he feels over his best friend, the cleverest man in London.

After a few deep sucks Sherlock shudders and comes down John's throat, in is mouth, over his face and it is absolutely disgusting but also best thing ever.

John moves up the bed, to slump next to Sherlock and they look at each other - John still covered in come, Sherlock red-faced and flustered. And then they break out in giggles - like they have so many times before, but never like this. And this shared moment of joy, more than anything, convinces John that this will be okay. This will be more than okay, this will take their previous friendship and amplify it. It will strengthen their bond and it will - well - it will most certainly provide John with the best sex of his lifetime.

And it's good. It’s really good, and for the first time for weeks, John Watson is looking forward to waking up to a new day, more than he is about crawling into bed at night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! I haven't written any fanfic for a while but I had enormous fun combining all of my favourite tropes in this little fic :) 
> 
> I'm not a native English speaker and I did not have a beta for this piece, so I'm fairly sure there are several mistakes in the text. I'd be very grateful if you'd point them out to me.


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